


Foggy memories

by LadyRo



Series: Tales from the Fourth Age (chronological) [6]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-04 23:28:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6680233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRo/pseuds/LadyRo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Houseguests and a misty morning turn Éowyn's thoughts to the duel Faramir lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foggy memories

_Urimë 3, Fourth Age 21_

Dense mist hung over the gardens of Dol Arandur, the Steward's Hill, on a cool summer morning. Tendrils of fog wove around thick tree trunks and tickled the lower branches before drifting down to their final rest as water droplets on blades of grass and flower petals. The gray haze dimmed the rising sunlight and even seemed to reduce the birds' morning chorus to a few distant voices.

Éowyn stood with crossed arms on the terrace that extended from the house, but though her eyes were open they did not take in her well-crafted haven, nor did she feel the flagstones under her feet. In her mind she was standing in a different place on this day two decades ago, seeing the slender trunks of apple trees and feeling the wetness of the Pelennor's grass seeping into her shoes.

A few rays of sunlight managed to pierce the mist on that day, and they flickered off the steel of longsword and scimitar as two combatants fought in the tree-ringed clearing. She watched in silent fascination and fear as her husband parried the strokes from his Haradan foe but could not land a crucial one of his own. This Southron named Khorazîr had declared Faramir responsible for his wife's death and had sought for many years to avenge her. He had failed in his previous attempts to slay the Gondorian, but now at last he had his best opportunity – a formal duel – and appeared to be gaining the upper hand in the fight. His attacks were swift and calculated while Faramir's reactionary parries were just quick enough to fend off the hungry blade. 

Then came the moment that she would see in nightmares for years afterward: First Faramir lost his longsword as the Southron whirled and swept it out of his grasp with the scimitar, then he lost his footing in the long grass and fell. Khorazîr wasted no time in seizing the victory. 

Éowyn's knees buckled when she heard Faramir's cry of pain as the scimitar sliced into his shoulder and pinned him to the ground; they regained their strength immediately as she tried to run to him. After one step she found herself doubled over Imrahil's strong arms as they tightened around her. “You cannot interfere,” the prince of Dol Amroth reminded her in a cracking voice. “Courage now, dear heart.”

“No,” she moaned. She writhed in an effort to break free, but as the arms grew tighter around her she felt a surge of anger at this injustice. _She_ had signed no contract listing the stipulations for the duel. _She_ had made no seconds' agreement not to interfere. _She_ had made vows of another kind long before this day, and was she now expected to stand idly by while the man to whom she had made them was slain?

Or perhaps he had already passed; for a moment, at that realization, she dared not look up, fearing what madness awaited her should she see a still form lying in the dew- and now blood-soaked grass. Hardly two days ago she had stated boldly that she would take charge of the fief should he lose this fight – boldly, because she had believed that no one could outmatch him. She began to feel a familiar despair, a despair that she believed she had conquered, claw at her mind, but suddenly it was repelled by a different voice.

_If you are to be the heiress of Ithilien now, then you must stand and face this trial. Fairer than any flower of the hills he called you, and like a fresh-cut flower you will be radiant for a little while longer before at last wilting._

And so she straightened, slowly, and saw the scene before her in the apple grove: Faramir pinned to the ground with a scimitar in his shoulder and the Southron who had hunted him for decades now standing over him in triumph, pressing the steward's own sword tip against his throat. Suddenly this Khorazîr raised his head and looked at the onlookers, and Éowyn met his gaze with her own. She uncurled her lips from their snarl and pressed them into a grim line as she felt her hot anger disappear and be replaced with cold hatred. Yes, she was not allowed to interfere, and, yes, the contract stated that with his victory the Southron would have safe passage to the borders of Gondor. But afterward? She would pursue him to his death – and her own, if need be, and once more she would welcome it. 

Now the Southron turned his gaze back to Faramir and shifted his hands on the sword hilt so as to make the fatal thrust.

The scuff of boot soles on flagstones drew her out of memory, and she turned to see that same Southron standing behind her, dressed in flowing red robes adorned with intricate gold and black embroidery. He moved a little more slowly at seventy-six years of age than he had in the past but with confidence still. And today he wore a thoughtful expression instead of arrogance.

“You know what day it is,” she stated quietly.

He ran his hand over gray hair streaked with a few resilient strands of black before nodding. “Twenty years ago on a morning much like this I held a man's life at sword-point,” he answered, “and I did not take it.”

“Allow me to say once more that I am forever grateful for that decision.”

“You do not need to do so year after year, dear lady. It was an unexpected burst of wisdom that made me see that I alone would find his death fitting repayment for Dereja's, that I would end my hunt only to find myself becoming the hunted. Perhaps the remnants of our families would be trading sword strokes to this day instead of sharing peace.” He sighed and looked away into the fog. “I admit, to my shame, that there were times in the months afterward when I cursed my weakness and wished I had let my desire for vengeance prevail, but–”

He was interrupted by the patter of light, rushing footsteps on stone and two girls' voices calling, “Grandfather! Grandfather!” Éowyn saw her eight-year-old Elerrína and his 10-year-old Hanneh appear, dark hair bouncing around faces of cool ivory and warm bronze. Both girls wore stern expressions as they halted, and each grasped one of the Haradan's wrinkled hands. Hanneh gave Éowyn a shy smile and a small curtsy. “Good morning, Lady Éowyn,” she said.

Éowyn returned the smile, amused by the child's continued insistence on formalities despite having been at Dol Arandur for more than a week. “Good morning, lovely Hanneh,” she answered.

Now the girl turned her attention to Khorazîr. “Grandmother says you must come inside before you catch a chill.”

“It is almost breakfast-time,” Elerrína added, “and Cook made jam from the raspberries we picked.”

Khorazîr's gaze shifted from one girl to the other, then to Éowyn. “But here are two unimaginable joys that would have been lost to us if I had,” he finished softly.

She could only nod; the tightness in her throat would not allow words to pass. He squeezed the girls' hands before announcing in full voice, “A few minutes in the pleasant morning air will do me no harm. What your grandmother should be fretting about is not getting to the breakfast table before the lord of this fief and his firstborn sit and devour all the raspberry jam themselves. Perhaps we should arrive at the table first and declare our own claim. Excellent work in scouting out the kitchens!” The girls giggled as he grinned, and then they turned and pulled him toward the door.

Éowyn followed a few steps behind as they entered the house. Just before they reached the dining room, Faramir appeared in the corridor and Khorazîr released Hanneh's hand so he could extend his right one. “Dúnadan,” he said simply.

“Khorazîr,” the prince replied as he took the offered hand. Other acknowledgments went unspoken but not unrecognized. The comfortable silence lasted a moment longer before Faramir continued with, “I see the search party Narejde sent has been successful. What say you, girls, should we wrap him in a blanket and tuck hot stones in the folds?”

The Southron snorted, and the girls dissolved into giggles again as they tugged him into the dining room. Faramir watched them go, then looked back at Éowyn and sighed. She stepped forward and slipped an arm around his waist. 

“I still find it strange how closely entwined our fates have become,” he said quietly. “I thought we would soon be strangers after the duel contract was canceled.”

“Yet now his grandchildren play in our home,” she replied, “and he is a welcome friend.”

“Most important, the hate and prejudice on both sides have been consigned to distant memory.” He paused. “Well, perhaps not all the prejudice.” His smile widened as Éowyn gave him a suspicious look. “I fully expect him to conspire with Ella to pocket all of the fresh berries.”

She chuckled. “He said much the same about you and Elboron.”

“'Tis a vicious rumor.”

“Ah, but rumors often have a grain – or should I say raspberry seed? – of truth in them.”

Faramir muttered another protest and began to step into the dining room, but Éowyn suddenly pulled him back, slung her other arm around him and rested her head against his chest. She let out a shaky breath as he kissed her hair. 

“No matter how many happy memories we create here or in Khiblat Pharazôn, I will never forget the sight of you lying on the Pelennor grass,” she said.

“I am safe and well, melda,” he whispered.

“I know, and I am glad.”


End file.
